Murder by the Book (24 page)

He had reached the depth of twelve inches when the blade struck something – not a stone or some similar obstruction, but an object solid yet yielding.

He squatted, peering into the shadow of the conical hole, and his throat constricted as he made out the leather upper of a shoe. With the corner of the spade he scraped away the soil, enough to confirm that a trousered leg emerged from the brogue. He stood quickly, swaying, and stared down at the shoe and the soiled trouser cuff. The body was evidently face-up, stretched out in the makeshift grave.

He thought of Caroline Lassiter, worried sick back in Islington, and a hot wave of despair passed through him.

He threw the spade down and retraced his steps around the cottage and back to the car. He found a turning place in the lane a little further along and motored back into the village. A phone box stood beside the lychgate of the church. He parked the Austin and jumped out.

He had Jeff Mallory's number in his address book, and he prayed the inspector would still be at his desk. The dial tone rang for what seemed like five minutes, only to be answered by someone who wasn't Mallory.

‘I'd like to speak to Detective Inspector Jeff Mallory,' Langham said, aware of the breathless flutter in his voice.

‘Who's speaking, please?'

Calmly Langham gave his name. ‘One moment,' the voice said.

He heard muffled voices, imagined a palm cupped over the receiver while a hurried consultation took place.

Seconds later Mallory said, ‘Donald?'

‘Jeff, I'm in Kent. I've … I've found a body. Nigel Lassiter. In a shallow grave. I …'

‘What? Slow down, Donald. Slow down. Now, where did you say you are?'

Langham took a breath and began a detailed explanation, starting with Caroline Lassiter's summons earlier that afternoon and finishing with his grisly discovery in the cottage garden.

‘Right, I'm on my way. Don't dig any further and don't touch anything else. I'll be down in about an hour.'

Langham replaced the receiver with a shaking hand, feeling sick. He wondered if he would ever again write about murder, or the discovery of a corpse, with the same cavalier attitude of ‘all in a day's work'.

He drove back to the cottage and sat in the car for about fifteen minutes, unable to bring himself to revisit the location where Nigel Lassiter, a friend and colleague, had met his death.

He climbed from the car and walked up and down the lane, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. He imagined Nigel Lassiter driving down here, parking up and approaching the cottage, imagining his imminent meeting with the solicitor but little realizing what was in store.

Langham stopped in his tracks. If Nigel had parked here, then where was his car now? Driven away by the killer, presumably.

He thought of the other victims: an editor, an agent and two writers, all active in the publishing of crime novels, and now Nigel Lassiter, undoubtedly the most famous of them all.

Fifty minutes after he'd phoned Mallory, a bulky black police van drew up outside the cottage, followed by the detective inspector's racing green Humber. Mallory jumped out and approached Langham, who gestured to the path around the cottage.

As they went, a forensic team debouched from the van, carrying spades, rolls of scene-of-crime tape and a camera on a tripod.

‘You say the cottage belonged to Frank Pearson, the writer found on a railway line a couple of weeks ago?'

‘I saw Nigel Lassiter on Friday, at Frankie Pearson's memorial service. He told me he was coming down here on Saturday to meet a solicitor. Pearson left him the cottage in his will.'

They rounded the end of the cottage. Langham indicated the discarded cigarette ends, then led Mallory down the garden towards the grave.

‘You think it was a set up?' Mallory asked. ‘He was lured down here?'

‘It certainly looks that way.' He showed Mallory the letter from the spurious solicitor.

‘Mind if I keep this?'

‘It's all yours.'

They came to the patch of the turned earth and Mallory squatted to examine the revealed foot.

A minute later the grave was surrounded by officers, uniformed and plainclothes, as well as several men in navy-blue boiler suits. Langham indicated the tool shed. ‘There's a soiled spade in there – the one the killer used, presumably. I used that one.' He pointed to the spade lying in the grass.

A police officer in blue overalls pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and carefully picked up the first spade, labelling it and taking it back to the van for later inspection.

A forensics officer began digging alongside a second colleague.

Langham stood beside Mallory and watched as the pair removed the topsoil with exaggerated care, taking off the first six inches along the length of the grave.

‘You knew Nigel Lassiter well?' Mallory asked.

‘He was a friend. His wife was worried sick … Christ, poor Caroline.'

The bulky South African looked at him. ‘What the hell's going on, Donald?'

‘I've been trying to work that out myself. An editor, an agent, three writers …'

‘It's someone in the trade,' Mallory said. ‘It has to be. Someone who bears a hell of a grudge.' He paused. ‘You know what they're calling the case, back at the Yard?'

‘Go on.'

‘The Grub Street Murders.'

‘You coppers are a bloody cynical bunch,' Langham said.

The diggers had removed the soil to the depth of twelve inches, and here and there along the length of the grave Langham made out patches of material, dark trousers and a casual jacket. The very same tweed jacket Nigel Lassiter had been wearing when they'd gone for a drink at Tolly's last week.

The forensics pair knelt and scraped away the last of the soil from Lassiter's corpse. The body lay on its back, hands by its sides. Langham glanced down, not wanting to see Nigel's face.

Mallory said, ‘What the hell's that?'

He pointed, and Langham made out what looked like the shaft of an arrow protruding from Lassiter's sternum.

A police photographer circled the scene, snapping the grave and the corpse from every angle and elevation. Other officers moved around it, combing through the grass and bagging any items of potential evidence they came across.

A stretcher was brought from the van and set down beside the grave. When the body was totally uncovered, four officers eased themselves into the grave, slipped their hands beneath the corpse, and after a count of three lifted it gently on to the stretcher, laying it on its side so as not to disturb the arrow.

Mallory said, ‘Christ, it's a crossbow bolt.'

Langham's vision swam and he knew he was in danger of passing out. He moved to a rickety garden bench beside the tool shed and sat down quickly.

Mallory glanced across at him. ‘You OK, Donald?'

Langham waved. ‘I'll be fine.'

A crossbow bolt, a shallow grave in a cottage garden …

Mallory joined him on the bench. ‘We'll take the body back to the lab, let forensics get to work. The killer obligingly left the bolt
in situ
, which might prove helpful.'

At last Langham found his voice. ‘Jeff … the crossbow, the grave …'

Mallory looked at him.

‘It's … it's so bloody familiar, Jeff. It's as if I've been here before. Déjà vu. I'm sure I've read of a killing just like this.'

Mallory smiled. ‘How many detective yarns have you read for review? Hundreds?'

‘Thousands over the years, for review and for pleasure.' There was something horribly familiar about this particular scene, though. It stuck in his mind. Then he recalled something that Mallory had told him the other day. ‘Jesus, Jeff.'

‘What is it?'

‘The murder you mentioned, the stabbing of Gervaise Cartwright with a stiletto, the hood …'

‘Yes?'

‘I thought at the time it was familiar, and I wondered then if I'd read something similar somewhere.'

‘Don't you think it's just coincidence? As you said, you've read thousands of mysteries, or are you trying to say … what? That some killer's perpetrating copycat killings, based on murders he's read in crime novels?'

Langham shook his head. ‘I don't know. I feel as if I'm locked in a dream, a dream where the images are falling away the more I try to concentrate on them.'

Two officers passed by, bearing Nigel Lassiter's body on the stretcher. Langham closed his eyes.

They left the decrepit cottage, which was being cordoned off with red and white tape. Langham climbed into his Austin, took one last look at the cottage, and set off back to London.

An hour later he rapped on the door of Maria's apartment, and after a minute she appeared and almost fell into his arms. ‘Donald.'

He held her to him, inhaling her scent.

‘I've cooked something, rather than go out. Donald, I was so worried.'

They climbed the stairs to her apartment. Langham marvelled at the luxury of the furnishings, the Queen Anne chairs and mahogany bureau. ‘Makes my place look very drab,' he said.

She poured him a beer and herself a red wine. ‘What happened, Donald? Did you find …?' She stopped when she saw his expression.

‘Nigel Lassiter is dead.'

She slumped on to the settee and Langham sat beside her. The beer tasted like nectar. ‘What happened?'

He told her everything, omitting no detail, and continued the description of his day and the grisly find over dinner. He finished his beer and she poured him another, replenishing her wine at the same time.

She sat in silence for seconds when he brought the events of the day to a close. Then she said, ‘Donald, stay here tonight, please.'

‘Would that be all right?'

She smiled, gripping his hand. ‘I want you here.'

They moved back to the settee and Maria leaned against him. ‘I've been answering the phone all day at the office,' she went on. ‘Calls from publishers and writers. They were all so shocked at what happened.' She smiled bravely. ‘I rang the hospital this evening, Donald. But there is no change. Charles is still unconscious.'

He held her as she wept.

L
angham was in his study the following morning, looking over the first draft of a short story, when the phone bell rang.

‘Donald?' It was Maria, and she sounded breathless.

‘Maria, are you all right?'

‘Good news!'

His heart kicked. ‘Charles?'

‘Yes, I've just called the hospital and talked to the ward sister. Charles regained consciousness earlier this morning. She stressed that he wasn't yet “out of the woods”, and has a long way to go, but she said that this was an encouraging sign.'

Langham felt himself grinning inanely. ‘That's wonderful. I don't suppose he recalls anything …?'

Maria interrupted. ‘No. The sister said that he has no memory at all of the incident.'

‘Well, I'm just delighted that he's back in the land of the living.'

‘And Donald, the sister said that we might – just
might
– be able to visit him this evening, depending on how he is then.'

‘Capital! Shall we do that, then?'

‘Visiting hours from six till seven. Could you pick me up?'

‘I'll do that,' he said. ‘What are you doing now?'

She groaned. ‘Working. Everything has piled up here over the past few days. And just when I am getting down to work, some well-meaning writer or editor phones up about Charles. Anyway, what are you doing?'

He told her about the short story and added, ‘But to be honest I can't concentrate on the thing.'

‘Take my advice and go for a long walk, Donald.'

He smiled. ‘Might just do that.'

They chatted for a few minutes, then Maria said that she really
must
get a manuscript read and said goodbye.

Langham was wondering whether to persevere with the story or take Maria's advice and go for a walk, when the phone bell rang again.

‘Donald Langham here.'

‘Don.' Ralph Ryland's piercing Cockney tones sounded down the line. ‘I said I'd get back to you if I came up with anything.'

‘Good man,' Langham said. ‘What have you got?'

‘Not that much, to be honest. A name and address—'

‘Excellent.'

‘Before you get excited, I'd better tell you that I think the name's a
nom-de-plume
, as they say in France, and as for the address …'

Langham's spirits sank. ‘What about it?'

‘Well, come over and take a look. You busy at the moment?'

‘I'm not doing anything that can't wait. Where are you?'

‘Streatham. I'll meet you on the corner of Wavertree Road, near the bus station.'

‘I'm on my way.'

He drove across the river to Streatham, recalling the same journey he'd made last week to drop off the money at the bombed-out mill. He hoped this trip would prove more fruitful.

Ryland had had little to go on, and he supposed it was a miracle he'd come up with anything at all, even if it were just a fictitious name and an address. Langham wondered why the private investigator had sounded so negative about the address he'd discovered. Any lead at this stage, no matter how seemingly insignificant, might prove valuable.

He parked on the corner and crossed the busy road. Ryland was standing next to his battered Morris Minor, stoat-thin in his grey raincoat, a tab end stuck to his bottom lip and his collar turned up, even though the sun was out.

Ryland nodded across the road to Langham's Austin Healey. ‘Nice machine. The books must be selling like hot cakes.'

Langham laughed. ‘An extravagance I can barely afford. I see you're still driving the Camel.'

Ryland kicked the Morris Minor's front tyre. ‘The old girl'll see me out,' he said. ‘Anyway, talking about Camels …'